The Ice Man
by day-see
Summary: turns out the Ice Man is not so cold after all– or, five times Mycroft Holmes guided his little brother fiercely, and one time he could finally let go.


The Ice Man.

summary: turns out the Ice Man is not so cold after all– or, five times Mycroft Holmes guided his little brother fiercely, and one time he could finally let go.

* * *

i.  
"come on little brother." he said gently, hands opened wide as the toddler in front of him struggled to walk upfront. "you can do this."

one, two, three–the toddler fell down, face first. he wailed, face looking up to his older brother with desperate plea. but the older brother did not move, only offer an encouraging smile, with a spark of challenge in his eyes.

the little brother's cries subdued, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, he got up. His chubby cheeks were red and his nose were runny and his limbs shook, but he took a stance, then a step, then two, then three…

and fall into his brother's arms.

"there." said the older brother. "not so hard, now, is it?"

* * *

ii.  
"I am getting worried." said Mother after dinner, as she tucked the food into the fridge. "He hasn't spoken yet." She sighed heavily.

"Worry not, my dear." Said father, gently patting her. "Doctor said that he is fine. let him take his time." He reassured her.

"But he's three years old, love. At that age Mike was already multiplying numbers."

The little brother cringed a little upon his nickname that was one-sidedly bestowed by his mother, but otherwise said nothing to interfere his parent's banter. He opted to take the dishes and washed them quietly in the sink, enjoying silence while getting the task done.

"M'cro'."

All petty chats that were exchanged in the kitchen stopped, and three heads turned to the little boy of three, who snuck in like a quiet mouse. He hid something behind him, the corner of the object a bit visible behind his back.

"What did you say, dear?" asked the mother, genuinely excited.

the little boy paid no attention to his mother, instead probed his older brother's feet. The brother put down his last plate and kneeled, just in time when the little brother pulled the thing he'd been carrying; a chessboard.

"play." He said, quietly, offering his board to the older brother.

Said brother gently took it with a slight smile on his face, nodding a small confirmation, before standing up to take his brother to the living room for a game of chess, leaving their parents speechless at the whole exchange.

* * *

iii.  
"idiot." The older brother declared coldly as the game finished, leaving the younger brother fuming due to another bitter loss. "You always misread me in critical times, little brother. The lack of patience is what makes you a fool."

The little brother glared sharply, before aburptly retreating from his seat. "I'm tired. I think i'm going to bed early." He declared. Older brother watched as he climbed the stairs and disappeared in the turn.

In the morning, when the little brother was awake, he found an "Advanced Strategy for Chess Players" laying innocently on his desk.

* * *

iv.  
It was two days after that Sherlock went back home. His eyes were swollen, his nose runny, and in his grip were carefully nurtured cookies wrapped in scrappy tissues.

Mother was angry, using that high-pitched voice which both boys knew meant 'trouble'. Mycroft heard Sherlock saying "research" and "library" and "freak" and "Bobby Jones" in between their mother's outrage.

When Sherlock passed over Mycroft's seat to climb upstairs to his room, Mycroft opened his mouth,

"Where did you get the cookies?" He asked, without looking up to his younger brother.

"Margaret Blanchard, a classmate of mine who interns at the library." Sherlock replied, "Why do you ask?"

But Mycroft was once again fascinated by the news on the telly, leaving Sherlock's question unanswered.

Only, three days later Bobby Jones had an ugly bruise from some random senior, and Margaret Blanchard found an anonymous letter of "thank you for looking after him", written in a neat, precise handwriting.

* * *

v.  
"Make a list."

It was after. After the scare, after the long hours on the OR, after the horrifying discovery that made Mycroft's heart skipped a beat for the first time in his entire life.

"You know I'm going to be fine." said Sherlock, still drowsy from the surgery, "This was just a little mix-up and I won't repeat it in the future–"

"Make. a. list. Sherlock." Mycroft penaltied with barely hidden anger. "Next time I found you like this, there better be a list."

Because they both knew that there will be a next time. Sherlock coped with the boredom in his life with drugs, just like Mycroft coped his with his choice of job.

"Why bother?" asked Sherlock, after some long minutes of silence. "Why do you care?"

Mycroft stared at Sherlock. "Because your loss would break my heart."

He said it just oh-so-casually, without any kind of emotion displayed, so that Sherlock would not notice. His little brother had always been dense on reading people's emotions.

Mycroft hoped that this time, his little brother would be dense enough to not read the pure truth within his words, too.

* * *

i.  
One glance at John Watson provided him a thorough background check. One glance at John Watson interacting with Sherlock, and he knew.

Finally, someone that loves Sherlock as much as he does.

 _fin._


End file.
